Andrew

That is your name, Dad,

inscribed in your tombstone

under the solitary pine tree,

facing the terraces that climbed

to your home in the heavens.

I remember your eyes moments

before you died in my arms.

What have I done to hurt you?

Had I not love you enough:

less than you had loved me?

Your eyes spoke your sadness

as I wrestled with my soul.

You will not feel the cold nights

nor the hot noonday sun,

nor hear the gurgling waters of the river

below the slope where you lie.

You will not hear me cry, nor sing

your favorite lullabye.

For we, together, have died.

For we, together, have died.

The son of Andrew, with Mt. Mayon at the background

The son of Andrew, with Mt. Mayon at the background

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